


The Price

by AsagiStilinski



Series: Yoitober 2019 [11]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Character's Name Spelled as Yuri, Crying, Crying Victor Nikiforov, Fae & Fairies, Fame, Inktober 2019, Light Angst, Lonely Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sad Victor Nikiforov, Victor Nikiforov Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 16:18:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20997716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsagiStilinski/pseuds/AsagiStilinski
Summary: Viktor is tired, that's just kind of his default state now, caught between the emptiness he feels on the ice and the emptiness he feels at home, the desperate need to keep going and fear of stopping coupled with the drowning sensation of hopelessness and listlessnessHe just needs toescape....And that's when he meets Yuri





	The Price

**Author's Note:**

> Day 11- "Snow"

_"And once again, Viktor Nikiforov sets a new world record, becoming the first figure skater in history to land a score of-"_

The rest drowns out

Viktor can't be bothered with it, really

His heart is too heavy, his smile is too fake, his mind is too weak

He pushes himself to look happy, the perfect pagent smile that he had been trained over the las twenty-something years to craft into something that atleast appeared to be real

But it wasn't

It hadn't been in so long, in years, and yet no one knew, not even his coach

He had become so good at faking that he had fooled them all, the student becoming the master, until no one knew any different

He blew a kiss, held up his gold medal, and pretended to be happy

He thanked a list of people who he barely even recognized, made some speech about following your dreams that had been written by someone else, and pretended to be proud

He took photos, went to the banquet, and pretended to be ok

But no matter how successfull the day may have seemed, no matter how many shiny peices of metal he had to hang up around him like decorations, nothing ever changed, and the nights remained the same

He shut the door to his hotel room and finally relaxed his aching expression into something that eased his sore jaw but brought no releif along with it

As soon as his mouth stopped hurting from smiling, the real pain began

He slumped down on the floor and held his gold medal, the tears pooling in the corners of his eyes as he let his head thunk down against his nees, gasping out sobs as he tightened his grip around the cold metal

Cold medals, cold skates, cold ice

Cold people, cold lives, a cold heart

Everything was cold

When was the last time he'd experienced any warmth at all?

_"You must be so proud,"_

_"You must be so happy,"_

_"Your life must be perfect,"_

He let people believe those things but none of them were true

When he was a child, the day he told Yakov that he wanted to become a professional figure skater, he had given Viktor the only peice of advice that ever ended up mattering

_"Think wisely Vitya, choose this path with knowledge, not passion, if you choose this path you will have to become an artist, only the artists truly make it as athletes, and there is a price to art, one too heavy for most to pay, wich is why so few succeed in the world of art,"_

_"What is it?"_

_"Life,"_

Viktor had thought, at the tender age of five, that it was a rather silly thing to say

How could someone pay with their life to be an artist?

Why, he knew of so many artists in so many feilds who were very successfull and still alive

Surely, art was not the killer his silly old coach thought it to be

But he was a child and too young to understand that being alive was not the same as living

Artists- the real ones, the ones who are truly dedicated to their crafts and willing to put in the pain and effort required to succeed at them, without taking any short cuts or accepting less than perfection- were suffering people

This was not a myth

But it wasn't for the reasons that people always talked about

It wasn't because it was a competitive job that so often appreciated any given peice for only a blink of a second of time, and it wasn't because it was a job that, atleast in the beginning, paid so extremely little that few artists could survive on their talent alone, it wasn't because it was unforgiving and demanding or because it required such a carefully woven combination of born talent and learned skill, those may have all been factors but they were never the real pain in artistry

The pain that always caught Viktor the most was the sheer endlessness

Don't get him wrong, he enjoyed being busy, as most artists did, but there was _busy_ and then there was.... _nothingness_

True artists, he had learned bitterly, truly did give everything to their crafts

They gave their last pennies for a new jar of paint

They gave the last second of spare time they had to finishing a story

They gave the last chance they may have had at good health to one last dance

They gave it all and they gave it all willingly and even _that_ wasn't what bothered Viktor the most

What bothered him the most was giving up his _soul_

Maybe not in a literal sense, but....

Everything he was, everything he had ever wanted to be, every part of him was invested in skating

He had nothing that was his own anymore

Every thought went into the choreography

Every breath went into the movement

Every emotion went into the routine

Until there was nothing left for Viktor himself and he was nothing but a drained, hollowed out husk of a person who flittered through life without really having anything or feeling anything or _being_ anything

He had no time for relationships

He had no energy for people

He had no emotions for anything that wasn't a blade and a block of ice

Every spare moment, every new thought, every breif emotion, had to be immediately carved out and stitched into his next performance, because it was the only way to succeed

And really, the medals were nice, but that was never what he had done it for

He did it for the art

He had always done it for the art

It wasn't for some false selfless reasoning like bringing joy to the world or having something to be proud of either, it was more like.... a possession

A compulsion maybe

He would sit at the dinner table, tired and hungry, with a new song playing in the background, and that song would inspire him and there would be this energy that would rush through his veins that made him _crave_

Eventually, he learned this craving was for art- to take this thing, whatever had caused his inspiration, and craft it until his fingers bled and his body trembled and he was left with nothing but the _art_ would be perfect

He just wanted to put that energy into something, before the feeling, the _craving_, of that restless energy, ate through him like acid

And so Viktor found himself choosing- to feed his body, or to feed his art

He would stand, everytime, and force his aching feet to the nearest pen and notepad, to start designing a routine or an outfit or a part of his next performance in some format

And he would stay there, with the same song on repeat, until it was perfect

And then he would pass out

And as so often was the case, his needs suffered for the sake of the art

For a time, Viktor was ok with this exchange

He had always been a social person but people never stuck around and in the end, skating never hurt him like people so often did, so he didn't mind giving that up

He had always been an energetic person, with lots of time and energy to devote to whatever he was passionate about, and he didn't mind that passion being skating, because really, what would he do better with time and energy than to use it on something important like art?

He had always been an emotional person, and at first, he considered it the best, most cathartic thing to pour those emotions into skating, because then he didn't have to feel them quite so much, he could experience the pain he was suffering through a different lens and it was easier to feel it secondhand in a performance than full force alone in his room

But Viktor was twenty-seven now and those prices that had seemed so cheap when he was younger no longer felt nearly as easy to pay

He was lonely, all the time, constantly, more so than he had ever been before, and he no longer knew how to create or hold a relationship even if he were to pursue one

He was tired, all the time, constantly, more so than he had ever been before, and even on his best days, he no longer had the energy to do anything but perform, nor the time to do anything but create

And worst of all, he was empty, all the time, constantly, more so than he had ever been before, everytime he felt something he jammed it into a routine so quickly that he barely even remembered what it felt like after, because he was becoming used to being numb and that scared him most of all

The only times he felt something these days were when the loneliness and pain and exhaustion all presented him with a perfect storm of sheer agony, and he thought to himself, as he sobbed and clutched his meaningless gold medal and curled his body to press against the nightstand, that this was better than feeling nothing at all

As long as he still felt _something_, he reasoned, even if it was pain, it meant that he wasn't too far gone

He wasn't too long lost

He could still recover from this, and find a way to actually _live_

The pain was like a slow beating pulse, it wasn't a good sign, but atleast it meant he was still alive

He had to get out of here, he told himself for the millionth time

He couldn't keep this up, he couldn't go like this for another year, he couldn't sacrifice himself to another program because this time, he knew, he wouldn't come out of it alive

The art was like a vampire, sucking him dry and leaving him with nothing, and yet Viktor was powerless to leave it, and he kept going back for more

Not because of a high, but because of the addiction

He thought to himself about retiring, but each time he did, he was filled with such intense fear that he was nothing short of _begging_ for the pain to return

Hell, the fear was enough to make the emptiness tolerable

Because what would he do without skating?

He had only lived four years of his life- plus a few months- without skates on his feet, and he had barely lived seven without living by a routine

He didn't know how to live outside of this now

He didn't know how to be.... a person

He didn't know how to form relationships, or what to do with his free time, or what he would do about a job or the endless Adult Life responsibilities that he only wove through now with the assistance of his coach and the hollow apathy skating left him with

Worse, he had spent so long in the spotlight, as a name on people's tongues and another medal to engrave and a structure that others desired to either emulate or defeat that now the thought of _not_ being those things terrified him

Though... not as much as the inspiration did

What would he do with that demanding pulse of desire and desperation when it found him again- and it would, it always did- and he had no outlet for it?

Design routines for others? No, that wouldn't be good enough

He had done that before when he had too much inspiration to put into only two programs and it hadn't helped

It had to be _him_ skating the routines, _his_ feet on the ice, _his_ body suffering through the manufactured emotions that his performances forced him to feel

It was the only way to satisfy the craving

He sniffed and sobbed, the exhaustion hitting him like a cement block against his body, but he forced himself to his aching feet anyway, dragged himself to the bed behind him and grabbed the sketch pad he had been drawing on that morning, before he had left for the competition

Taking the pen off of the pad, he shakily started to draw out patterns

A quad flip here, a triple axel there, a sit spin here, step sequence there....

The pain, cruelly enough, had only given him another burst of inspiration, and though he felt wrecked and terrible and just wanted to sleep, he found himself reaching shakily for his phone, blatantly ignoring all of the congratulations messages he had been getting and pulling up YouTube

The song he needed was haunting and beautifull, it was why he had chosen it for this routine

It reflected exactly how lonely he was, how much pain he was in, and he couldn't listen to it without crying

So he pressed "Play", sucked in a breath, and went back to drawing as the tears started to run down his cheeks, faster and harder than before

They were almost blinding, and his hands were shaking with the way the sobs racked through his body, but he kept going until it was done

He always did

~+~

It was three in the morning

At three in the morning, Viktor had finished the planning for next season's free skate before this season was even technically over

He set the pad and pen on the nightstand, feeling the familiar but short lived releif that came from completing that sort of thing, and laid listlessly on his side

He should sleep, really

Really, he should sleep

And yet....

He forced himself up, too restless to sleep, despite how exhausted he was, and winced as his feet touched the floor

It was ok though...

It was fine, he'd been through much worse

So he shoved his shoes on, grabbed his coat and a scarf, and headed out of the hotel room

Wandering through the hotel like a ghost felt miserable

He would say that he wanted to go home, except that he couldn't really remember what that was anymore

Everything felt foreign to him now, everywhere felt like a brand new place, and he hated every second of it

Heaving a frustrated breath, he rubbed at his face and stepped into the elevator

There were a million things he should be doing but going for a walk in a small town just outside of Tokyo, at three in the morning, when he had a flight to catch the next day, wasn't one of them

Viktor couldn't even speak Japanese, he didn't have money for a car if he should end up being too tired to walk back, he hadn't brought his cell phone with him...

If something went wrong, he had no way to get back, he'd be stranded

But he didn't care

He wondered listlessly if he would finally be released from this frustrating, endless cycle of hatred and need and loneliness if he just got stranded and froze to death in a forest somewhere

A morbid thought for sure, and there was a voice in his head acting as the angel on his shoulder that said _"But you have so much to live for"_

Another voice, the devil on his opposite shoulder, only scoffed at that

_"But I have nothing to live for"_

Viktor wasn't suicidal, not seriously anyway

Since the age of about fifteen he had created his own personal sliding scale of intensity when it came to thinking about death, working on a five point system ranging from "Not at all concerning" to "Call someone, get help"

He figured he was about a two right around now, a three if he was really pushing his boundaries of what his scale represented

He was fine, he reasoned

He'd lived through fives before, a two was honestly barely worse than a good day

He wasn't thinking of purposely getting lost or anything- there were much better ways to off one's self than to freeze to death in the middle of nowhere after all, Viktor had thought about them- he just felt like... if he did, maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing

Then again, maybe he could run away

Maybe he could just .... walk, and keep walking, until there was nowhere left to go

Maybe he could pawn the gold medal that he had thoughtlessly brought with him and get enough money to afford a train ticket somewhere, some food, and if he was pushing it, a motel room

Maybe he could get a job at a grocery store and change his name and leave Viktor Nikiforov and all of his pain behind, really, what was stopping him?

....

The language barrier, for one thing

That plan sounded alot better for a country where he spoke the native language

Besides, he knew that wouldn't really work

Even if, logistically, he could pull that off- and he really doubted that he could- the painfull inspiration would catch up to him sooner or later

It always did

And then without an outlet for that inspiration he would just be worse off than he was now

He found himself at a park by the time his legs started to wobble, and he considered it an act of mercy from whatever god might be looking out for him

He found himself listlessly falling onto a bench and trying to ignore the wet snow that bled through his coat and pants

The cold never bothered him really, it was the wetness that made him the most uncomfortable, but in that moment he couldn't bring himself to care

He just.... looked up at the falling snowflakes, exhaling slowly and watching as his breath turned white against the cold air

He shoved his hands into his pockets for warmth and wrinkled his nose at the cold gold that weighed heavily inside one of them

Sure, he had brought the medal, but not gloves, why was he even surprised by himself?

Frustrated, he pulled the medal out and set it down on the bench next to him

Part of him wanted to throw it across the park, just out of sheer frustration with himself, but he remembered all the other skaters who would have sold an organ for that medal and knew that doing anything but appreciating it would be an extreme insult to them and Viktor wasn't that kind of person

The thing was, he never really hated the medal, he liked it, he honestly did, and some part of himself was happy for the accomplishment- or, would be, anyway, if he could feel happiness anymore

Perhaps better put, he felt satisfied with the accomplishment, that the last year of his life hadn't been wasted on a program no one wanted to see

He would take it home and hang it with care with all of the others that he always found himself avoiding and only staring at in his lowest of moments, as if looking to them for an answer of some kind

They never gave him one though

He just wished he could find a way out of this endless hell, this constant repeat of hating his life but being too afraid to leave it, of loving his art but hating what it did to him

He just wanted a way out

He just wanted to find a way to escape from this self-composed prison

"You look like you could use these,"

Looking up suddenly, Viktor blinked in surprise at the fact that there was someone standing in front of him, and offering him a pair of gloves too

They looked nice, leather, and Viktor found it a little curious that some random stranger was just carrying a spare pair of leather gloves around through an empty park at three in the morning

"...Ah.... thank you," he finally said, his face turning pink- and not from the cold- as he carefully accepted the gloves and mumbled a few Russian exclamations as he slipped them on

The sudden warmth on his hands was more releiving than he thought it would be, and now that he had the chance to actually pay some attention to the stranger standing in front of him, Viktor noticed how stunningly beautifull he was

Dark hair, dark eyes, blue-framed glasses and pale, slightly blushing skin, likely pink from the cold...

His expression was so soft and sweet that Viktor just wanted to plunge right into whatever could get him closer to the stranger

And for the first time in... he didn't know how long, maybe _ever_, Viktor actually craved something that wasn't art

"You're welcome, may I ask what you're doing out here so late at night? And so... poorly dressed to accommodate the cold?"

Ah right... with nothing on but his sweats under the coat and scarf, no gloves, and only a pair of running shoes on, Viktor probably looked like a disaster, and the outfit was likely not helping just how cold he felt either

"O-Oh um... it was a spur of the moment sort of thing... I just... I needed to get out, you know? I needed to walk off some feelings, that's all,"

"Oh.... well, I hope you feel better," the stranger noted, sitting down on the bench next to Viktor, on the opposite side of the medal, wich Viktor hurried to stuff inside his pocket

He didn't want to be Viktor Nikiforov right now

He just wanted to be Viktor

"I do, as a matter of fact,"

Wich was unusual, he hadn't expected that to work, it never really had in the past....

"But what about you? What are you doing out here all alone? And at three in the morning at that?"

"I work late," the stranger replied simply

Before Viktor could comment on that though, the stranger had offered the skater his hand, a gentle, serene look on his face as he did so

"I'm Yuri, by the way,"

"Viktor," the gold-medalist hummed, taking Yuri's hand and giving it a gentle shake

"Viktor.... that's such a pretty name,"

"Thank you, as is Yuri, in fact, I know another Yuri,"

"Do you?"

"Yes, he's a fellow competitor, he'll be making his senior debut next year,"

"... Competitor? What do you compete in?"

Well, so much for keeping this just for Viktor and not for Viktor Nikiforov, he couldn't even get past introductions without spilling who he was

"Um.... I'm a figure skater," he finally replied, rubbing his neck shyly

"Oh really? That sounds so nice,"

"It.... it is," Viktor lied smoothly- or atleast, what he hoped was smoothly, but he knew in reality that it wasn't

"Actually... no, no it isn't," he added belatedly, a humorless laugh to follow

"I mean I enjoy it, I would never want to do anything else, and I really do love being out on the ice, it's just.... just that I've trapped myself in this.... this _snowglobe_, do you know what I mean? Skating used to be just about the art- wich was already stressfull enough as it was, it already took alot out of me- but now when you add in competitions and having to win all the time and being a celebrity and always having to be perfect....... there's nothing left of me anymore,"

He didn't know where this was coming from, he didn't know why this was happening, all he knew was that all of a sudden he was baring his soul to a complete stranger and now that he had started, he felt like he couldn't stop

"I devote so much of my life to skating that it's all I live for now and it isn't enough anymore, I have no freinds, no family, no relationships of any kind.... I'm always tired, I'm always aching, I never have time for myself or energy to do anything else, I'm always completely drained, I feel like my soul is being sucked out of my body and yet I can't quit- even if I want to- because I'm afraid of what will happen if I do,"

The tears had started up again, and he couldn't control himself as they started to fall down his cheeks

He fully expected Yuri to get up and leave, or to make some sad comment about how rough that must be and then finding an excuse to leave as quickly as possible, or.... _something_, something normal, but that wasn't what happened

Instead, he felt the foreign delight of two strong arms around him, hugging him tightly, warmth seeping from one body into the next, and Yuri's soft, calming voice as he wispered quieting comments and soft encouragements into his ear, stroking his hair and rubbing his back, and Viktor felt....

Fuck, Viktor had just never felt like this before

He felt cared for, he felt _loved_, and honestly, just that thought alone made him cry even harder

He let himself go

He let himself sob

He let himself suffer through all of the pain that he had been bottling up for years and years and let Yuri take every single ounce of it from him, until finally, he was empty

But it wasn't the same emptiness as before

It wasn't exhausted apathy, it was... _releif_

Like a sink had been drained of muddied water and was left clean again

"I'm.... so sorry for just... just unloading all of that on you," he noted, sniffing as he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, but Yuri's touch was there still, never having left, only shifted, one hand on his back now and the other on his lower thigh, both rubbing peacefully, soothing him as Viktor gave a few last hiccuping cries into the cold December air

He felt exhausted and refreshed at the same time, and he didn't know quite what to do with that

"Please don't apologize Viktor, it's ok, you needed to let it out, there's nothing wrong with that,"

There was alot wrong with that, especially when letting it out involved pouring everything he had unsolicited onto a complete stranger, but.....

But if Yuri said it was ok then he wasn't going to argue, as per usual, he didn't have the energy

"You want to escape all of this, don't you?" Yuri asked quietly, his expression and his tone entirely sympathetic as he moved one hand away from Viktor, shifting from his leg to Yuri's pocket

"Y-Yeah... yeah I do," he confessed, choking on a breath that felt disappointingly like another sob about to break loose, but he was too depleted of tears for it to come forth

"I don't... want to quit skating, I want to keep doing that, it still... I don't know if I can say it makes me happy exactly but I still love it, I just... I want to quit competing but I'm afraid, and I don't want to let people down, and I don't want to quit winning, I just- ... I don't know... I don't know anymore... I want to skate to be FREE, but it feels like... now I'm just stuck in this gilded cage and I can't do anything else because if I do I'll lose everything, I'm too much of a coward to quit, because if I did, then what would I do with myself?"

"You aren't a coward Viktor, you've been doing this since you were practically a baby, ofcourse you'd be afraid to quit, that's normal, but... that doesn't mean that pushing yourself so intensely is healthy, especially if you don't want to,"

Viktor shook his head, sighing quietly and biting his lip

"I want to be imperfect but I don't want to stop being perfect either, I want to be _allowed_ to be imperfect with the option to refine things at my choosing, I don't want to give my routines away to other people but I'm tired of killing myself for this art and getting nothing truly valuable in return, gold is cold, it can't keep me warm like happiness or... or.... _a person_ could,"

"I understand," Yuri promised, gently taking Viktor's hand and pulling a small, wrapped, treat out of his pocket, setting it down in Viktor's palm

"....A... cookie...?"

It was small for a cookie, bite-sized, but it was still a cookie from what he could tell through the clear wrapping

"I can help you escape from this, Viktor, I can help ease the pain, you wouldn't have to give up skating, but you'd be free of the burdens that come with it, you could have what you want- warmth, happiness.... people... _family_... but you have to leave all of this behind, you have to leave this world behind,"

Viktor slowly took the medal out of his pocket and stared at it

He imagined never winning another one and felt barely a twinge of pain

He imagined doing this for another year and adding a sixth gold medal to his collection and felt more tired and depressed than he had since Yuri started talking to him

"...What... do I have to do?" he finally asked, staring up at Yuri in determination

Yuri smiled softly, his expression warm, like it had been all night, as he gestured to the cookie Viktor was holding

"Eat the cookie, then follow me,"

Viktor didn't hesitate, he gave the medal to Yuri- who seemed oddly fascinated by it, tracing over it a few times and holding it up to the moonlight to examine it- and unwrapped the cookie like a child opening a Christmas present

It was gone in one bite, but Vikor still marveled at the taste of it, of how sweet and fluffy it was, and he wondered if Yuri had baked it himself

"There's no going back once you make this decision Viktor," Yuri noted, slipping the medal on over his head and standing up, his hand extended to Viktor

"I won't take you if you don't want me to, I'm not.... _like that_, so be sure.... is this what you want?"

"Yes," Viktor replied instantly, standing as well and taking Yuri's hand

"I'm positive,"

Yuri smiled at him fondly, and Viktor felt oddly at peace with that expression alone

The stranger started to walk, and Viktor followed

Yuri lead him through a forest, and Viktor kept pace, not so much as asking where they were going

"Last chance to back out," Yuri warned, maybe ten minutes into their walk

"I'm not going anywhere," Viktor replied firmly once more

Yuri's expression was as soft and gentle as always as he stepped forward, his foot entering a circle of mushrooms

Viktor followed right after, and failed to notice, at first, the beautifull, luminescent silver wings that glimmered in the moonlight, having emerged from Yuri's back the moment his foot hit the faery ring

~+~

Nearly a year ago, Viktor Nikiforov went missing

It was the strangest case anyone had ever seen in a long time

He had taken nothing but his coat and scarf, and his gold medal

He'd left his plans for his next routine scrawled out on a notepad on the nightstand and hadn't even taken his phone or wallet with him

And yet there was security footage from the hotel of him wandering alone that night, out of his room, out of the hotel, and then.... gone

Just... vanished.....

The Japanese police, who were none too thrilled to be caught up in an international incident with one of Russia's biggest celebrities, searched exhaustively, but couldn't find so much as a shoe print

Now Yuri Plisetsky was standing outside, clutching the gold medal he had just won from the NHK, wondering, not for the first time, what had happened to Viktor

He was making it his mission to find out

It would have to be a side project, only gaining his devotion as a secondary priority to his skating, but....

He was still determined

Cursing under his breath, he turned to walk back to the hotel, rubbing his face in annoyance, but pausing suddenly when he heard... _laughter_

It was joyfull, peacefull, and so full of happiness...

And yet it was a wisper in the wind, like the laugh of a ghost, not quite there but still definitely existing....

"Who's there!?" Yuri shouted, turning on his heel and finding, with surprise, a single blue rose growing out of the ground

Odd....

Blue roses didn't exist in nature, and this one grew right out of the grass, not even out of a rose bush

Yet stranger still was that blue roses were Viktor's signature....

Swallowing tightly, he bent down and picked the rose, noticing a single silver hair that slid off of one of the petals and feeling his stomach churn at the sight of it

That laughter was back, the ghost of happiness, and Yuri suddenly had the very strange sensation that Viktor Nikiforov didn't want to be found


End file.
